


my bones have always cried for the stars

by starbursts_and_kisses



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Like a whole truckload of it, Pre-Canon, get ready
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starbursts_and_kisses/pseuds/starbursts_and_kisses
Summary: Arthur is a knight in every sense of the word, until Rhaegar inadvertently starts a war by running away with Lyanna Stark. And then he’s not.





	my bones have always cried for the stars

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this is what happens when you get sucked back into a ship you've been lowkey shipping since last year. 
> 
> It feels like forever since I've written a one-shot (probably because it has been forever) so here goes nothing.

The first time he sees Lady Stark, he mistakes her for a stable boy. To be fair, Arthur – despite the rumors Ser Oswell likes to spread about him whenever he is feeling particularly prickly and in need of someone to torment – has never had much experience with Northern girls. He would sooner lose a swordplay match than recognize the Warden of the North’s own daughter, never mind the fact that she is said to bear a striking resemblance to her brash, loud-mouthed elder brother Brandon. But then again, Arthur has also never met a lord’s daughter who travels in soiled breeches and keeps her hair in such a mess it’s a wonder her braid is still in place.

And then there is the cursing.

Arthur struggles to keep his expression neutral as he witnesses the stable boy valiantly trying to keep his balance on the stool while simultaneously holding his horse’s reins in place.

Except it isn’t his horse. Not entirely.

Upon closer inspection, Arthur recognizes the wild creature as Caraxes, a black, wild-tempered stallion that belongs to the royal family. He is said to be one of the Mad King’s favorites, an honor that he had earned based on the number of men he’d injured and thrown off his back since the time he was shipped off from Dorne several moons ago. None but a few select handlers had been able to tame him thus far, and it is on the tip of Arthur’s tongue to cry out a warning to the boy as the stool wobbles precariously amidst Caraxes’ thrashings, when the unthinkable happens.

“There’s a good lad,” a voice that sounds unmistakably female croons. “There you go. Shh. Be calm now. Aren’t you a beauty?”

Caraxes stills under the stranger’s touch. Arthur follows the motion of her hands as they bury themselves under the horse’s silky mane, as though in a trance. 

“I would hardly call the beast beautiful,” he finds himself saying.

The girl spins and almost loses her balance. In the early morning sunlight, her face looks guilty. _And rather comely_ , a traitorous part that sounds suspiciously like Prince Lewyn whispers in his ear. 

Arthur blames the long ride from King’s Landing to Harrenhall. Kingsguard or not, no one is capable of surviving King Aerys’ company for long without losing part of one’s sanity in the process. The only one who has ever come close is Queen Rhaella, but that is not a thought Arthur likes to dwell on for too long. There are layers upon layers of guilt just waiting to be explored should he choose to go in that direction, but he has done a stellar job in ignoring them all these years. Today is no exception. 

The girl looks positively horrified at the glint of Arthur’s armor and the shadow of Dawn on his back. “Forgive me, Ser,” she murmurs. “I did not mean to… That is, I was merely passing by when I –” 

“You were seduced by the horse’s beauty. Yes, I gathered that.”

At the gentle smile Arthur gives her, something in her relaxes. “I’ve never seen a Dornish horse before,” she confesses. “Father has forbidden me to have one on my next name day, as he says it would only make me more reckless and lessen my chances of being a proper lady in time for my wedding next spring, but Brandon promised me that once he becomes Lord of Winterfell, he would buy me a dozen horses, anything to keep me happy –” 

At those words, something finally clicks into place.

 **“** You’re Lord Stark’s daughter,” he realizes, cutting her off mid-rant.

The girl blinks. “Yes. My name is Lyanna.” She takes one look at him and beams, her eyes taking on that starry, admiring quality that Arthur has grown accustomed to seeing from his squires. “And you are Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lady.”

“I’d curtsy, but –” Lady Stark gestures to the horse and the precarious position she has found herself in, and shoots him an apologetic smile. “ – I’m not sure it would be wise.” 

“Not to worry, Lady Stark. I am not easily offended,” Arthur reassures her. He steps closer into the light until he’s standing directly behind her, ready to catch her in a moment’s notice should she fall.

She never does, though. Instead, she resumes talking, her head bent as she continues to tend to the horse as though it is her own, and in between questions about Dawn and the story behind the numerous battles he had fought, she tells him about Winterfell and her favorite flowers and all the horses she’d named after old Valyrian female warriors.

It’s the longest Arthur has talked to a woman who isn’t his sister _or_ in any way directly related to his line of work, and the ease by which he manages it surprises him. There are a dozen tasks he needs to perform before the day is over – helping the Prince practice for the upcoming tourney, relieving Ser Gerold of his watch to ensure that the Mad King doesn’t burn him alive in a fit of anger – but he finds himself almost reluctant to go back to the castle. The Northern girl intrigues him, in a way that all strange things intrigue him, but Arthur doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it for too long. A Kingsguard has his duties. Distractions are not allowed.

 

* * *

 

Several days later, he and the prince stumble upon the Knight of the Laughing Tree’s identity by accident. They find the shield half-buried in the ground, its owner leaning against a nearby tree for support, face tipped towards the sunlight. Arthur could barely rein in his surprise. She may be disguised in ill-fitting men’s clothes, but he would recognize that guilty and defiant look anywhere.

“Lady Lyanna?” 

Her face pales when she sees them and the hand holding her mismatched shield trembles. 

“Ser Arthur?” She turns to him, her eyes shining with fear and a tiny glimmer of hope. Surrounded by the two of them, she looks impossibly small just then. It is hard to imagine her riding in the field and winning a joust against three grown men, much less three knights, and if not for the purplish bruise contrasting sharply against her skin, Arthur would have gladly found another excuse for her presence and the shield at that moment. 

He is thinking of what to say to her when Rhaegar beats him to it. “You’re hurt, my lady.” The prince frowns and, heedless of personal space, closes the distance between them, fingertips tracing the mark on her cheekbone with uncharacteristic gentleness.

“Why would you intentionally put yourself in harm’s way like that?” Rhaegar’s tone is genuinely curious. He tilts his head to study her, and Arthur notices, rather belatedly, that his hand has not strayed from her cheek. 

Lyanna’s skin flushes at the contact, her eyes dropping to the ground. Arthur does not blame her. Rhaegar tends to have that effect on people.

“Those knights disrespected my friend,” Lyanna says angrily, her cheeks reddening even further at the remembered slight. “I had to teach them a lesson.”

Rhaegar does not smile, but judging by the intensity of his gaze, Arthur could tell that he is both pleased and surprised by her answer. “You were very brave,” the prince tells her, his voice sweet as honey. From anyone else, the compliment would have sounded false, but coming from him, it has the opposite effect.

Lyanna peeks at him hesitantly through her lashes. “You aren’t mad, Your Grace?” she finds the courage to ask. 

“On the contrary, I find your actions rather admirable.” Rhaegar shifts closer and allows his thumb to linger one last time on her skin before finally pulling away.

Lyanna’s gaze flits from him to Arthur and back to him. “Will you bring me to the King?”

“No.” Rhaegar flexes his fingers, as though fighting back the urge to touch her again. A feeling of unease creeps its way past Arthur’s chest, but he simply stands there, motionless, as the air grows heated with the weight of Rhaegar’s words. “You will find, Lady Lyanna, that I am good at keeping secrets.” 

Later, Rhaegar asks him about Lyanna Stark. Arthur hesitates for only a fraction of a second before telling him everything – their chance encounter in the stables, Lyanna’s fascination with wild horses, her love for winter roses. The prince listens to him with a strange expression on his face and says nothing.

 

* * *

 

It isn’t long before Rhaegar starts meeting her in secret. The first time, he rationalizes it by saying he only wants to make sure that Lyanna is recovering well. The injuries she sustained in the joust are bound to incapacitate her at some point, and as the sole keepers of her secret, it is their duty to aid her in her recovery.

The second time, Rhaegar takes her riding with Caraxes. They don’t go far, and never without the company of Arthur and a few of his trusted knights, and they are careful not to be seen. The threat of discovery and the rumors that would soon follow would be worth it, though, if only so they could witness Lady Lyanna ride. It is a pleasure seeing her in her element. With her hair blown back from her face and her eyes bright, she could almost pass off as a wildling. Arthur watches the prince track her movements and is suddenly filled with a wild notion that Rhaegar would steal her away. But the prince is no Bael the Bard, and Arthur knows that.

The third time, Rhaegar charms his way into stealing a dance from her. It is the night after the feast, and somehow, the prince is unable to forget the memory of Lady Lyanna laughing with her brothers, shoulders bared, her lips stained red with wine. Rhaegar is nothing but courteous to her the entire night, but there is something about the way he holds her that gives doubt to his earlier statement that he’d like nothing more than for them to be friends. 

After the third time, Arthur stops keeping count. Out of all of Rhaegar’s friends, he has known him the longest, and though the prince’s happiness is a primary concern of his, there is something about this strange affair that gives him pause. He isn’t fooled in the slightest. And, he thinks, neither is Lyanna.

 

* * *

 

“What does the prince want with me, Ser Arthur?”

It is the last day of the tourney and Arthur is helping Lyanna navigate their way towards the prince’s hidden tent, as he is wont to do. Rhaegar’s instructions were to sneak her in so he could cajole her into giving him her favor, but judging by the nature of her latest question, Arthur isn’t feeling optimistic for the prince. 

His eyes remain fixed on the path ahead of him as he answers her. “What do you mean, my lady?” 

Lyanna stops walking so Arthur would be forced to look at her. “I mean,” she says with a sigh, “Why all the secret meetings? Prince Rhaegar tells me he means me no harm and that he values me dearly as a friend, but I cannot imagine I would be worth all the trouble of sneaking around for. Surely he has better things to do than seek my company.”

Arthur shrugs. “I cannot speak for Prince Rhaegar. But perhaps he finds your company uplifting. As the crown prince, not everyone speaks so plainly with him the way you do.” 

“You speak plainly with him,” Lyanna points out.

This forces a laugh out of Arthur. “True,” he concedes, placing his hand on the crook of her elbow and steering her forward so they could walk unimpeded once more. “But I have the distinct advantage of having known him nearly all my life, so I cannot imagine he’d be enthusiastic enough to see me all the time.”

“You’re saying the prince is bored of your company?” 

Lyanna stares dubiously at him and huffs when he refuses to deign her with an answer. After a moment though, she looks at him consideringly and says, “If it helps you feel any better, you don’t bore me, Ser.”

“It doesn’t,” Arthur lies, seemingly unfazed.

But Lyanna sees right through him. Arthur pretends not to notice the way her blue dress brings out the grey in her eyes when she smiles at him.

 

* * *

 

Everything goes to hell the moment Rhaegar hands her those stupid blue roses. Time seems to stop as he urges his horse past Elia and heads for the Starks, the tip of his lance lingering a moment too long on Lyanna’s lap as he delivers her the prize that she neither wants nor expects. It is too silent in the stands, and Arthur’s heart catches in his throat at the sight of Lyanna’s confused and stricken expression.

Elia is furious, as to be expected. _Dorne_ is furious. The Baratheon boy even more so. Surprisingly, so is Arthur.

“Your Grace, have you gone mad?” he hisses moments later as he helps the prince take off his armor.

Rhaegar looks neither upset nor offended at Arthur’s outburst. “Not to worry, Arthur,” he says in his usual calm, stoic manner. “Everything is as it should be.”

“You know you cannot afford to alienate Dorne,” Arthur insists. “If you are to take the Iron Throne from your father, you would need the support of every House in the Seven Kingdoms. But in one day, you may have managed to lose half of them.” 

Rhaegar runs his hand over his face, a gesture that is so characteristically Rhaegar that it has the desired effect of reassuring Arthur that no matter the events that transpired today, the prince is still undoubtedly himself. “At this point, the only thing I fear losing is Lyanna.” He stares at his most trusted friend and says, as though the words pain him, “She refuses to see me, Arthur. Will you talk to her? Make her reconsider?”

Arthur nods. “Of course,” he murmurs. “Only, tell me this… Is she worth it, Your Grace?” 

Rhaegar exhales softly and closes his eyes. “The dragon must have three heads,” he whispers. “I need her, Arthur. She is my Queen of Love and Beauty, and I _need_ her. She is worth the heavy price.”

 

* * *

 

He finds her by the lake, skipping stones and dipping her bare feet in the water. She looks so peaceful sitting there that he has half a mind not to disturb her, but the prince’s pained look comes back to him and this gives him the courage to step forward.

“Lady Stark, may I join you?”

Lyanna startles at his approach and frowns. “Only if you promise not to talk about the prince,” she says crossly.

Arthur looks at her out of the corner of his eye and ignores her request. “Are you still mad at His Grace?” he asks evenly, though he thinks he already knows the answer.

Lyanna’s frown deepens. “His Grace did me no favors by crowning me at the tourney. Surely you are both aware of that?”

The ice-cold fury in her voice is unmistakable and Arthur struggles to tamp down the feeling that somehow, both he and Rhaegar had let her down. “You know he did not mean to hurt you,” is what he says instead. It’s what Rhaegar would have wanted him to say. 

The sound of a stone hitting water fills the silence. Lyanna stares at her white knuckles in an effort to avoid his gaze and bites her lip. Something about the way she does so reminds Arthur that she’s just a girl and that this – whatever _this_ is – is something she should not be going through. She deserves better, Arthur thinks. But he won’t be the one to say that.

“Prince Rhaegar is lucky the tourney is over. Else Brandon would’ve challenged him to a joust and stuck a lance through his chest, consequences be damned,” Lyanna tells him, face darkening at the prospect.

“And what about you, my lady? Do you wish to stick a lance through Prince Rhaegar’s chest as well?”

Lyanna sighs. “What I wish is for him to tell me what he wants with me,” she replies. 

“The prince is fond of you.” Lyanna opens her mouth to protest but Arthur doesn’t let her. “He is. I think you’ve known that for quite some time now.” 

“What does it matter if he likes me?” Lyanna argues. “Love is sweet, Ser Arthur, but it cannot change a man’s nature.” 

“And what is Prince Rhaegar’s nature?” Arthur wishes to know.

“I don’t know. I don’t know him well enough to know yet. But I do know that he’s married, for one thing,” Lyanna declares in a tone that suggests she wishes he weren’t. “And I’m betrothed to Lord Robert. No amount of winter roses can change that.”

She stands up. Arthur looks at the set of her shoulders and the downward slope of her mouth and thinks it best not to follow her despite the little voice in his head telling him that he should. “Tell your prince my answer is no,” she says over her shoulder.

Arthur respects her enough to let her go.

 

* * *

  

If Lady Lyanna thinks that that would be the end of the matter, then she truly does not know Rhaegar as well as Arthur does. No Targaryen likes to be denied, and the prince is no exception. He writes her letters – letters on love and poetry and music – but they all go unanswered.

Arthur thinks of Elia, of the gentle way she cradles Aegon and the tiny, sweet smile she gives Rhaegar whenever they break their fast together at the Red Keep, and is glad that Lyanna Stark is not the type of lady who is easily baited. She may loathe being betrothed to Lord Baratheon, but perhaps it is for the best. She will find no happy ending with the prince either. 

But a girl her age can only remain strong for so long. Arthur had been foolish to think otherwise. Or mayhaps the fault lies in underestimating Rhaegar. A dragon does not ask for what he wants. He takes it.

 _With fire and blood,_ Arthur thinks as he watches the prince’s lips curve into a victorious smile. His eyes drop to the fading parchment in Rhaegar’s hands. One word is scribbled on it, one that fills him with a terrible sense of dread. 

_Yes._

It seems Rhaegar has finally succeeded in doing the impossible. He has secured Lyanna Stark’s consent by promising her her freedom. Arthur’s brow furrows. Freedom, but at the cost of what? He’s not certain he wants to know.

“Gather the others and saddle the horses, Arthur,” Rhaegar instructs him in a voice like steel. “We leave at dawn.”

 

* * *

 

It is easy to lose Lyanna’s Northern companions, and by the time they make it off the main road without being seen, it is already past midday. They stop by a nearby creek to feed the horses and stretch their legs, and Arthur takes this moment to observe Lyanna without the risk of incurring Rhaegar’s unwanted attention. She looks well enough, breathless and eyes a little wild, but when she laughs at something Ser Oswell says, Arthur’s chest constricts. He wishes, more than anything, that they could bring her back to Winterfell where she’d be safe and protected from all of this. There’s a war coming. And the last thing anyone needs is for a she-wolf to be caught in the crossfire.

“Ser Arthur!” Lyanna abandons her earlier conversation with Ser Oswell and runs to him. “You are Dornish, are you not?”

Arthur could not yet trust himself to speak, so he simply nods. 

“Is Dorne as wonderful as the Prince says it is?”

“Yes.”

Lyanna smiles at him the way she always does – bright, inviting, and entirely too trusting. Arthur wishes she would stop. He doesn’t know how much longer he can last before the guilt threatens to bury him alive. “You must be thrilled to be going back to Dorne,” she remarks, not knowing that the longer she speaks about the subject, the deeper the knife embeds itself into Arthur’s heart.

An image of Starfall flashes before his eyes – the sandy beaches, the view of the Torrentine from his mother’s window, the way the landscape slopes and changes to reveal jagged mountains and red soil – and Arthur is seized by a sudden longing for home. Of course he wants to go back to Dorne, has been longing to go back there ever since he’d said his vows and exchanged his purple cloak for a white one, but not like this. Not with the knowledge that he is contributing to the destruction of Lyanna Stark’s innocence, whether indirectly or not. 

But if it is Rhaegar’s will that they take Lyanna away from the comforts of the only family she has ever known so she would be safe from the clutches of Robert Baratheon and any man Lord Rickard might deem fit for her to marry, then so be it. 

Rhaegar is his prince, his friend, and his brother. Arthur would follow him to the ends of the earth if he has to.

 

* * *

  

“Do you miss your brothers?” 

It is the hour of the wolf and Arthur is polishing Dawn in an effort to keep himself awake. Rhaegar and Ser Oswell have long since drifted off to sleep, but Lyanna remains huddled near the fire pit, one hand curled upon a mug of sweet wine, her face half-hidden in her furs.

Her eyes come alive at the mention of her brothers. “I do,” she replies almost instantly. But then she remembers the reason why she’s here – camping out under the stars with two members of the Kingsguard and a prince for company – and the longing for home disappears.

Something that might pass as anger crosses her face. “I’m sure my brothers are fine. They can certainly survive a few more moons without me.” 

“You could still go home, my lady, if you wish to. Just say the word and we would be happy to escort you back.” The words are out of Arthur’s mouth before he has the chance to take them back. _You foolish, foolish man,_ he tells himself, his grip on Dawn tightening despite his efforts to appear calm. 

“I can’t go back, Ser Arthur. I _can’t._ ” Lyanna looks so stricken by the thought that it hurts Arthur just to look at her. “I think of being Robert’s wife, of bearing his children and living the rest of my days as the Lady of Storm’s End, and it’s like – it’s like I can’t breathe. I know it is what is expected of me, but I cannot help but wonder… Why am I not allowed to long for different things? There has to be something more to life than… than this.” 

It’s the most honest Lyanna has ever been with him, and a part of Arthur is glad that he gets to see her like this. “I think,” he says slowly, like he’s confessing a secret, “that each and every one of us is entirely capable of making our own destiny. And the ones who try to do so are the bravest ones of them all.”

“You truly believe that?”

“I do.”

Lyanna’s mouth curves into a soft smile. “Thank you, Ser Arthur,” she whispers.

Arthur stays silent and stares at the flames. He does not know what fate awaits Lyanna at Dorne, but he is glad that, in this moment, his words were able to provide her with the comfort that she needed. It will matter little in the long run, but he does not regret being honest for once.

 

* * *

 

She brings him flowers when they are halfway to Dorne, a habit borne from her days as the only girl in a household full of men. The flowers are purple, the kind one often finds on the roadside, but the gesture is so unexpected Arthur has to blink twice and pause in the act of foraging for food. Lyanna rolls her eyes at his reaction and, despite his stiff countenance, hands him the proffered gift anyway. 

Ser Oswell fakes a scowl and tells her it isn’t fair that Arthur is her favorite knight because who else is going to rescue her when Ser Arthur is off doing Prince Rhaegar’s bidding except him? This breaks Arthur out of his daze and prompts him to respond by saying that Lady Lyanna’s judgment is sound so Ser Oswell need not act like a whiny dog in front of the lady, to which Ser Oswell scoffs and then goes on to rant about Ser Arthur’s utter incompetence and that time he almost killed the members of the Kingsguard by feeding them stuffed peppers while on a mission in Oldtown. Arthur most certainly remembers that that was not the case – Prince Lewyn is Dornish, for gods’ sake – but he allows the slight nevertheless, if only so he could keep the smile on Lyanna’s face. She has been sad and homesick as of late, and if Ser Oswell can entertain her by telling her fabricated stories about Arthur, then he would bear the loss of his dignity with minimal complaints.

“You wound me, dear lady,” Ser Oswell says dryly. 

Lyanna laughs. The sound draws Prince Rhaegar to look up from the map he has been studying. His expression remains carefully blank, but Arthur, who has always prided himself in having an intimate knowledge of the prince’s every mood, knows better.

“But the flowers are _purple,”_ Lyanna argues, heedless of the growing tension between the Dornish knight and his prince. She holds up one flower and rests it on the curve of Arthur’s cheek and says, “See? They match Ser Arthur’s eyes just so.” 

No one mentions that Prince Rhaegar has purple eyes too.

 

* * *

 

They reach the outskirts of Dorne by nightfall. The absolute wonder and joy in Lyanna’s eyes as she takes in everything the place has to offer is hard to dismiss, and at every turn or so she stops to stare at the landscape or at the strangely dressed people milling about the market square selling plums, spices, and blood oranges. Her disguise is flimsy at best – just some stolen clothes from an innkeeper’s daughter and a scarf that does little to hide her feminine features – but no one, least of all Rhaegar, has the heart to tell her to hurry lest someone finds their company suspicious. 

Arthur watches her with fond exasperation, reminded of a time when a young Ashara roamed the halls of Starfall with the same restless energy as Lyanna’s. Except this time, it’s different. Lyanna Stark is not his sister, and Arthur’s feelings for her are so far from brotherly it could have been funny had it not been so tragic. Still, sister or not, the urge to protect her is there.

How could he not, when she looks so fierce one moment and fragile the next? How could he not, when Prince Rhaegar keeps staring at her like she is sunlight and he is a man who has lived his entire life in darkness? He plays his harp every night for her and sings about blue roses in glass jars and a dark-haired maiden astride a dragon whose tears could turn enemies into glass, while Lyanna weeps and laughs and weeps some more. She has always had a weakness for Rhaegar’s music and the prince is wise enough to take advantage of that. All the while, Arthur does nothing. His vows to Rhaegar compel him to do nothing. The thought chafes at him until he is left wondering if he could be anything other than useless. 

He isn’t aware he’s been watching her for too long until Ser Oswell clears his throat and shakes his head at him. The look on his face is somber. “Don’t,” he simply says, his eyes darting once to the Northern girl he has taken to calling princess. “That girl will be the death of you, my friend.” 

Arthur won’t know the truth of his words until later.

 

* * *

  

“Do you love the prince?”

The words tumble out of Arthur’s mouth unbidden. The thought of Lyanna hearing them is so horrifying he wants to double back to the tower and busy himself with something other than serving as protection for Rhaegar’s beloved girl child as she goes for a ride out in the sand dunes, but the way things are going, soon enough the only thing Lyanna would need protection from is Arthur’s inability to say the right thing at the right time. 

If Arthur expects her to blush at the question, then he would be sorely disappointed. Lyanna draws her eyebrows together into a frown and says, “I don’t know.”

This time it is Arthur’s turn to frown. “How can you not know?”

Lyanna shrugs and stares at a spot above Arthur’s head, her thoughts seemingly far away. “I can’t explain it,” she tells him. “Sometimes I think I do, when I hear the prince singing to me or when he’d stare at me a moment too long when he thinks I’m not looking. His eyes are just so… so _sad,_ and sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to have them sparkle with happiness and know that I was the one who made it so. But then I think about the princess and their beautiful children, and it’s like pricking my finger with a thorn to remind myself that I shouldn’t want for more than what I was already given. Besides, there is…” _You,_ her grey eyes seem to tell him. She smiles sheepishly at him and says, “Like I said, Ser Arthur, love is sweet. But it never seems to be enough.”

 _It never is,_ Arthur thinks bitterly. He wishes she had just answered yes because that would have made everything worth it – the lies, the running away, the betrayal. Perhaps Lyanna would find a way to absolve him of his complicity in Rhaegar’s crimes if she could only reassure him that her love for the prince is reciprocated and well past the point of madness. Let the world burn, Arthur thinks, so long as Lyanna does not burn with the rest of them. She must have no regrets. She must stop smiling at Arthur in a way that makes his heart constrict. She must learn to love Rhaegar. And above all else, she must never, ever, know about the prophecy.

 

* * *

  

News reaches Dorne about Rickard Stark’s trial by fire and the subsequent burning of his eldest son. Rhaegar stares aghast at the letter, as though willing its contents to shift, before finally crumpling it with his fist and feeding it to the flames.

“My father has gone mad,” the prince whispers softly before burying his face in his hands.

Arthur swallows the horror in his throat and says the first thing he could think of. “Lady Lyanna.” The thought of Lyanna’s shattered face when word of this reaches her makes Arthur’s breath hitch painfully in his chest. He closes his eyes in an effort to banish the image away and utters, “This would break Lady Lyanna’s heart.” 

At the sound of her name, Rhaegar stirs. The grim resolve in his eyes gives Arthur pause. “She must not know of this,” he declares.

Arthur looks at him as though he is the one who has gone mad. “With all due respect, Your Grace,” he says. “This is not something you should keep from her.” 

“I will tell her when the time is right, Arthur,” the prince reassures him. “But not now. She cannot know yet.”

Of course, Arthur knows the real reason why Rhaegar can scarcely afford to tell Lyanna about her family’s fate. It’s because she hasn’t fallen in love with him yet. Trust Prince Rhaegar to think of such logistics at a time like this.

Arthur holds back his tongue and carefully arranges his features so they would not betray his thoughts. “As you wish,” he says smoothly, knowing that he is bound by law and duty to do whatever it is the prince wishes him to do. It’s what the Kingsguard before him had done, and it is what he will continue to do so for as long as he and Rhaegar both draw breath. Rhaegar commands; he follows. There is no in between. But it does not stop Arthur from wishing that, for once, he could make an exception for Lyanna Stark.

 

* * *

  

“Don’t go.”

Her plea almost gets lost in the loud thumpeting of Arthur’s heart as he tries hard not to concentrate on the feel of her palm sliding against his. Her grip on his hand is soft, despite the hard calluses on her fingers and the self-assured way she holds her horse’s reins, and Arthur marvels at the fact that this – this moment right here and right now– is so completely and utterly _theirs._ How no one has seen them yet is a miracle unto itself. But the night is dark and quiet, and in the shadows, Arthur can pretend, at least for a little while, that all is well. 

“I must go, my lady,” he murmurs. He squeezes Lyanna’s hand once before letting go. “The prince commands it.”

But Lyanna, stubborn wolf child that she is, would not let the matter go easily. “Why can’t Ser Oswell go instead? He is as capable as you are,” she points out. 

“Prince Rhaegar trusts me the most,” Arthur answers her.

“ _I_ trust you the most.” The ease by which she says it warms his heart a thousand times faster than if someone had set Dorne itself on fire. “You have a been a dear friend to me, Ser Arthur, and a true comfort during these trying times. I shouldn’t be so selfish that I would insist to keep you here. It is only that… I feel safest when I am with you.” 

Arthur’s eyes, so eerily similar to that of Rhaegar’s when the moonlight hits them at just the right angle, tell her that she shouldn’t. “You will be safe with Prince Rhaegar,” he insists. He doesn’t know whether he says it for Lyanna’s comfort or for his, but either way, he hopes it has the desired effect.  

Lyanna’s mouth twists down in a display of concern. “And who will keep you safe, Ser?”

“I have Dawn.” Arthur pats the hilt of his sword reassuringly. “Dawn will keep me safe.” 

They stare at each other, the knight and the runaway girl child, and for a short while, the world stops. Then Lyanna rushes forward, and before he knows it, she has thrown her arms around his neck, her weight a warm thing against the cold plates of his armor. Dazed, Arthur hugs her back for as long as propriety allows him to. 

“Please come back in one piece, Ser Arthur,” Lyanna whispers in his ear. 

Arthur smiles at her and swears, “I will.”

It is the one promise he intends to keep.

 

* * *

  

Ser Gerold Hightower arrives at Dorne like a comet blazing across the sky. Though Arthur accompanies him, their appearance is met with varying degrees of surprise and, in Ser Oswell’s case, with a scowl so deep it could slice through the very earth itself. Arthur can hardly fault him for it. Ser Oswell hates surprises, and since Arthur was unable to send word of their arrival for fear of his message being intercepted, he would just have to make do with glowering at Arthur.

He resolves to tease him about it the moment the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard is out of hearing range, but the moment his boots hit the ground, he immediately realizes that something is wrong.

Rhaegar is looking entirely too content for someone whose secret whereabouts had finally been discovered. The prince is nothing at all like King Aerys, but he could at least act a little concerned that the man his father sent to fetch him back to King’s Landing has finally found him. No one knows how this will all play out – whether Ser Gerold will choose to stand with them or whether swords must, at some point, be drawn – but the last thing Arthur expects is for Rhaegar to greet them with a smile. 

He nods at Arthur and motions for Ser Gerold to join him in his private chambers, no doubt hoping to sway him into doing what is right for the realm despite the Mad King’s wishes. Ser Oswell, chastised by the look the Lord Commander gives him, the same look that Arthur himself had received when he and the Lord Commander had first been reunited, reluctantly follows them at a distance, leaving Arthur alone outside the tower. 

It is then that he realizes that Lyanna is not there to greet him. His stomach tightens with unease. He had been gone a few moons longer than he had anticipated, thanks to the White Bull’s tenacity to find Prince Rhaegar and his companions, but what could possibly have happened during that time that would warrant her absence?

In the end, he finds her the way he always does, alone and kneeling in the sand with her head bowed and hands clasped together in her lap. There are no heart trees in Dorne, but a short distance away from the tower, there is a small copse of trees hidden from view, and it is there that Lyanna has chosen to find solitude in prayer. 

Arthur thinks that there is nothing Lyanna Stark could ever do that would surprise him again, but when she rises at his approach and faces him, the air around him stutters to a halt, and for a moment, he forgets to breathe.

Lyanna turns to him with dull grey eyes, one hand on her belly. When Arthur had left her, she had been a spirited girl child, innocent in all the ways that matter, her smile as bright as the Summer Sea. Now she stands before him with a round belly and a face softened by time, and the full knowledge of what surely must have occurred strikes him harder than any blow an enemy could’ve given him. 

“When did this…?” He’s not sure he truly wants to know, but the not knowing is somehow harder to bear, so he pushes the bile down his throat and forces the words out of his mouth before he is forced to do something else, like break down and cry and slash everything in sight. “Seven save me, did he –?”

Lyanna shakes her head sadly and cradles his wrists with her hands, her touch bone gentle. He wants to shake her, as though by doing so he could somehow shake the sadness out of her eyes, but when she opens her mouth to speak, there is nothing left for him to do but listen.

“It happened the day after you left,” she tells him, her voice uncharacteristically subdued. “Prince Rhaegar told me about Brandon and my father, about what that – what that _vile_ king had done to them, and I completely lost it. I was angry and sad and I couldn’t stop crying, and Rhaegar… he was – well, he was there. He held me in my sleep, and before I knew it, we were –” Lyanna swallows visibly and drops her gaze to the ground. “It wasn’t forced. I gave him my consent, but afterwards… Afterwards, I regretted it. There were a million reasons I knew as to why I shouldn’t have done it, but by then I couldn’t take it back. I couldn’t risk going into the nearest town to find moon tea, and I knew next to nothing about other herbs, so I prayed and prayed and… We had only done the deed once, so I was hopeful that nothing would come of it, but –”

Lyanna abruptly stops, as though she has finally run out of words to explain her predicament. “Ser Arthur,” she whispers, sounding scared. She would not meet his gaze. “Are you disappointed in me?” 

Disappointed? Arthur feels mad enough to laugh. Here she is, alone, helpless, and with child, and she has the grace to ask him if he is disappointed? The world does not deserve Lyanna Stark. 

Arthur’s fingers tremble – with terror, with undisguised hopelessness, and with the terrible, _terrible_ knowledge that this is entirely his fault. He should never have left her alone with Rhaegar. He should never have taken her to Dorne. He should’ve known – should’ve known that Rhaegar had sent him on a fool’s errand because he knew that Arthur was the only one that could’ve stopped him, should’ve known that Rhaegar was only waiting for him to leave so he couldn’t ruin things. He should’ve brought her back to Winterfell when he had the chance. He should’ve told her about the prophecy. He should’ve told her. He should have told her.

A sob almost tears its way out of his chest. But the Kingsguard do not weep.

“I’m sorry, Lady Lyanna,” he chokes out, dropping to his knees in front of her. “I am so sorry. I do not deserve your forgiveness.”

Lyanna lays a hand on his cheek, her touch cool as a winter breeze. “Rise, Ser Arthur,” she says softly. “There is nothing to forgive.”

But Arthur couldn’t do it. He had _told_ her, that fateful day before he left. He had told her that Rhaegar would keep her safe. But he had been a fool. What use is his white cloak now if he could not protect one innocent maid? He is no knight. Perhaps he has never been one.

 

* * *

 

The days bleed into one another. Lyanna’s belly grows larger, and soon enough she is so heavy with child that she is forced to stay in the tower Rhaegar has aptly named the Tower of Joy. Ser Oswell had secretly rolled his eyes at that, much to the Lord Commander’s consternation. 

Arthur doesn’t let Lyanna out of his sight – never again – even though Rhaegar himself treats her with such gentleness it’s like he half-expects her to break. The other knights remain silent, but sometimes they stare a moment too long at Lyanna’s belly, as though to remind themselves of what is at stake.

Everything is different now. Arthur had heard whispers of rebellion during his travels in Dorne, and people spoke of a Stormlord scouring the streets with a war hammer in his hand, shouting Rhaegar’s name to the heavens. It would only be a matter of time before full-scale war breaks out and Rhaegar and his knights would be forced to ride into battle. Arthur would fight for the prince, same as always, but now he cannot help but fear for Lyanna as well. What would become of her and the unborn babe should they lose? If Robert wins and he claims her for himself, he would demand blood. But surely, it won’t come to that. Arthur won’t let it. At least in that regard, he and Rhaegar are in agreement.

It is no secret that their relationship had become strained upon Arthur’s arrival. He finds that he cannot bear to meet the prince’s gaze, not when there is the shadow of Lyanna’s unborn child constantly hovering in the air between them. Arthur feels betrayed somehow, even though he knows it isn’t entirely the prince’s fault. Rhaegar had been honest with him from the start, or as honest has he could have ever been, given his silent and withdrawn nature, with his mad ramblings about red stars and dragon heads and songs about ice and fire. Only, Arthur had been too blind with loyalty to see that. Or perhaps he had simply chosen not to see.

But now it is as though a veil has been lifted and Arthur can see clearly for the first time in years. He sees the way Prince Rhaegar’s gaze burns through Lyanna like fire catching on wood, sees the way he lays a gentle hand on her belly and drops a kiss to her forehead. It makes him wonder if Rhaegar would have had the boldness to spirit Lyanna away regardless of prophecies, wars, and tourneys. 

The night before they are set to leave for the Trident, the prince summons Arthur to his chambers. Rhaegar has his back to him, but when Arthur enters, he turns to him and acknowledges the knight’s grim countenance with a nod. “The time has come, my friend. The rebellion must be quelled,” he says. “Can I count on your support?” 

“My sword is yours, Your Grace. Now and always,” Arthur responds, the words ingrained in him since early knighthood.

“Good.” Rhaegar regards him for a moment before speaking. “To you, Ser Arthur, I entrust the most difficult task of all. You are to stay here and guard Lady Lyanna with all your strength. Keep her and the babe free from harm, and may the Seven protect you all.”

Arthur blinks, taken aback by the prince’s words. “You mean for me not to accompany you to the Trident, Your Grace?” He could not remember a single instance wherein he had left the prince’s side in a battle. 

“Yes. I alone must go and muster the rest of the troops,” Rhaegar affirms, his solemn eyes daring Arthur to object. “Ser Oswell and Ser Gerold will be with you, but remember, Arthur, you are the one I trust the most. Watch over them, and when the war is over, I shall send word and meet you back here at Dorne.”

“And if you don’t come back from the war?”

“Then you run. You run and keep them safe. No matter what happens, Lord Baratheon must not have Lyanna and the Princess Visenya.” 

“I will give my life to protect them,” Arthur vows. 

“As will I.” Rhaegar stares at the expanse of clouds gathering outside and whispers, “I was never supposed to love her, was I?” The smile he gives him is sad. “Do you blame me for that, old friend?”

“No,” Arthur replies, surprising himself by how true those words are. After all, why blame Rhaegar when he could just as easily blame himself?

 

* * *

 

“Push, my lady, push!”

Lyanna screams through the pain, her vision swimming with tears. Arthur holds her hand in Rhaegar’s absence, her fingernails leaving crescent-shaped marks on his palm. He had not wanted to stay at the birthing chamber – his own mother had died giving birth to Allyria many years ago – but all it had taken was Lyanna’s panicked howl of “Ser Arthur!” and he had come running, full armor and sword in place. He has not left her side since.

The midwife clucks her tongue at all the blood seeping out of Lyanna and nudges her thighs further apart. “Almost there, now. You need to push,” she bellows. 

Lyanna bites her lip so hard it begins to draw blood. She turns her sweat-streaked face towards Arthur and, with a shake of her head, sobs, “I can’t do this. I can’t. I have no more strength left to give.” 

Arthur strokes her hair with his remaining free hand and leans forward so that his forehead is touching hers. His violet eyes are unwavering. “You can do this, my lady. I believe in you,” he says, trying to inject every bit of warmth and encouragement in his voice. 

It works. Lyanna takes a deep breath, grips his hand tighter than ever before, and strains with all her might. For a moment there is only her labored breathing and the unsteady rhythm of Arthur’s heartbeat as it threatens to burst out of his ribcage, but then a newborn’s cry pierces the air and then it’s over.

Lyanna collapses back on the bed with a sigh, wet hair plastered to both sides of her face. She looks so tired, but in that moment, she has never looked more beautiful. Arthur feels so unbelievably proud of her.

“It’s a boy, my lady,” the midwife exclaims. 

Lyanna sobs through her laughter, her hands trembling as she holds the tiny bundle of joy in her arms for the first time.

_A boy._

The babe is no princess. He is not Visenya come again. He is not some final piece in a prophecy meant to chase away the darkness and bring victory to the realm. He is not and will never be Rhaegar’s pawn. 

It feels like a victory.

 

* * *

 

The fever dreams come and go. The midwife frets and struggles to do her best, but Arthur can tell by the blood coating Lyanna’s thighs and the way the light slowly leeches out of her eyes that whatever it is they’re doing, it’s not going to be enough.

Lyanna is dying.

“Don’t be sad for me, Ser Arthur,” she says, smiling softly at him, her pale-white fingers tracing his jaw. Arthur shuts his eyes closed. Even on Death’s door, she is kind enough to offer him comfort. “You know I hate to see you sad.” 

“I’m not sad. I’m not. There’s nothing to be sad about because you will get through this, my lady. You will get better, and Prince Rhaegar will come back, and everything will be alright.” 

“No, it won’t,” Lyanna tells him. Her eyes start to glaze over and she says, “I’m dying, Ser Arthur. Even now I can hear Brandon calling me. He’s smiling at me. Can you not see? There, by the window. He says he and my father are waiting for me.”

Arthur’s heart seizes – his heart a bloody, vile little thing that he cannot control – and he cries, the words sounding broken even to his own ears, “ _No_. Lyanna _, no.”_  

Lyanna laughs weakly, the air rattling in her lungs at the effort. “Did you know,” she stutters, “This is the first time you’ve called me by my name. Not Lady Lyanna, not my lady. Just Lyanna. Who would’ve thought? Had I known that all it would take was me dying for you to do away with the formalities, I would’ve done it sooner.” 

“Don’t jape like this,” Arthur pleads, his hands finding its way to rest on the hollow of her cheekbones. The coldness of her skin frightens him. “Please, Lyanna, you must live. For your son. For Prince Rhaegar.” _For me._  

“I fear that it is already too late for me, Ser,” Lyanna replies sadly. “You will protect my son once I am gone, won’t you?”

Arthur nods once, his throat tightening.

This seems to satisfy Lyanna. She closes her eyes, the veins in her skin glowing faintly purple in the moonlight, and sleeps. She looks peaceful for the first time in days.

Arthur is afraid she’ll sleep forever and never wake up again.

 

* * *

  

The sky is awash with the pale grey of first light when Eddard Stark and his companions finally make it through the red mountaintops of Dorne. When they reach the base of the tower where Lyanna lays cold and dying, Arthur and his sworn brothers are ready. They make an imposing sight standing there, their white-plated armor shining like light upon water, blades naked and at the ready.

 _Surrender,_ the Kingsguard’s eyes seem to tell them. _Surrender._

Instead, Ned Stark unsheathes his sword. His companions follow suit.

So it is to be war then. Arthur shifts and rolls back his shoulders. He does not want to do this – does not want to kill needlessly, does not want to prevent one of the only people Lyanna cherishes in this world from seeing her. What has Ned Stark ever done to him? Nothing. Arthur does not know him at all, but what he does know is this: Eddard is the closest thing to a brother Robert Baratheon has. If Robert finds Rhaegar’s son, he will kill him. And Arthur has sworn an oath to keep him safe, no matter the cost. 

Dawn feels light in his hands. “And now it begins,” he says.

Ned Stark lifts his sword in the air with a solemnness that reminds him of Lyanna. “No. Now it ends.” 

The battle commences. Arthur moves first, his movements quick as lightning, his blade a deadly extension of his arm. He cuts and he parries and dances just out of the enemy’s reach, and before long, the smell of blood is in the air and Arthur’s eyes are wild with the rush that comes from a good swordfight. His opponents are good, but Arthur is the deadliest out of Aerys’ seven knights. He was _born_ for this.

In a different time, they would have won. The knights of the Kingsguard move as one lethal unit, each compensating for the other’s weaknesses. Ser Oswell is all brute force and sheer strength, Arthur is the fastest, and Ser Gerold, whose greatest strength lies in defense, is the glue that holds them together. When Ser Gerold falls, the remaining knights begin to unravel. 

The Northerners fight unlike any other opponent they’ve met before. They move as though every strike is a killing blow, their faces stoic and calm even in the face of death. And the fact remains that they vastly outnumber them. Seven against three. Arthur refuses to think about the sword sticking out of the White Bull’s side.

He has faced worse odds before. He may survive this yet. 

Ned Stark’s blade comes swinging out of nowhere, but Arthur blocks it easily. He answers it with a strike of his own, almost knocking the younger Stark boy off his feet. Ned stumbles, but keeps on going. 

“Let me pass, Ser. Allow me to bring my sister home.”

The mention of Lyanna is like a needle pressed into his heart. Arthur wills himself not to think of her. Lyanna would never forgive him if he kills her brother. It is a good thing then that Arthur is not looking for forgiveness.

“Please,” Ned Stark says just as Arthur’s arm is poised to deliver the blade’s kiss. “This is not what my sister would have wanted.”

For a fraction of a second, Arthur hesitates. The images come to him then, one after the other – Lyanna pressing a flower to his cheek, Lyanna racing him in the woods, her laughter ringing in the air like tiny bells, Lyanna falling asleep with her fingers threaded through his. The memory of her sears him, and for a moment, he is crippled by the need to see her one last time. 

He thinks of her and hesitates, and that is all it takes.

Howland Reed’s blade buries itself in the soft chink on his armor. Blood drips on the sand like precious rubies. 

Arthur falls.

 _“Lyanna,”_ he breathes out.

The Sword of the Morning closes his eyes one last time and sees stars.

 

* * *

  

Up on the tower, the sickly scent of death awaits them still. A Northern girl cries at the sight of her brother. Promises are made, and a newborn’s Stark grey eyes peek out from beneath a bundle of cloth.

Howland watches the scene, his heart aching for the girl child who had rescued him all those moons ago at Harrenhall.

He longs to tell her that the greatest knight who ever lived had whispered her name with his dying breath, but then he sees her eyes straying to the door, as though waiting for the familiar figure of a man in a white cloak, and slowly, he begins to understand.

In the end, he decides against telling her. It seems a cruelty, and one that the lady does not deserve. 

Let the dead die in peace. Howland will carry their secrets to his grave if need be.

 

* * *

 

Later, the songs will tell them of a prince who gave up his life fighting for the woman he loved. But no one will know of the knight who, once upon a time, loved the same maiden so much he could think of nothing else except her, even in death. No one would know this other tale. None save for Howland.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I've always been curious as to how Howland Reed managed to stop Arthur from killing Ned, but ugh, it figures that out of all the scenarios I'd come up with, this is the one my shippy little heart wanted to write. Lol.
> 
> The first one who spots The Song of Achilles reference gets a drabble. Or virtual pizza.


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